The Beating of his Wings (Left Hand of God Trilogy 3)

by Paul Hoffman

  ‘What now?’ said Trevor Lugavoy.

  ‘Now? Now you buzz off like the young man said. And I mean out of Spanish Leeds. Go on a pilgrimage to beg forgiveness for your shitload of sins. I hear Lourdes is particularly horrible at this time of year.’

  And that was that. The Two Trevors moved to the wall opposite Vague Henri, but before they merged with the dark, Lugavoy nodded towards him. ‘See you.’

  ‘Lucky for you, old man,’ said Vague Henri, ‘that he came when he did.’ Then they were gone.

  ‘This way,’ said Cadbury. As Vague Henri stepped behind him he let go of the overstrung bow and with an enormous TWANG! the bolt shot into the blackness, bouncing between the narrow walls in a criss-cross series of pings. As Vague Henri and his not-exactly rescuer put on some speed down the road, a mildly offended distant voice called out to them, ‘You want to be careful, Cadbury, you could’ve had someone’s eye out.’

  It was unfortunate that Cadbury and Vague Henri met under such circumstances. The latter was no fool and was getting less foolish all the time – but if someone saves your life only the most disciplined could fail to be grateful. And he was, after all, still just a boy.

  Cadbury’s offer to stay with him for the evening was well taken and Vague Henri very much needed the several drinks he was offered on top of the ones he’d had already. No surprise then that he told Cadbury a great deal more than he should have. Cadbury was, when not murdering or carrying out doubtful business on behalf of Kitty the Hare, an amiable and entertaining presence, and as capable and desiring of affection and friendship as anyone else. In short, he quickly developed a fondness for Vague Henri, and not one like that of IdrisPukke’s for Cale that was particularly difficult to understand. It even had the mark of true friendship, if by that one means the willingness of friends to put aside their own interests for the other’s. Cadbury decided it might be better if Vague Henri were not drawn to Kitty the Hare’s attention in any more distinctive way than he already had been (as an unimportant familiar of Thomas Cale). Kitty was skilled at not letting you become aware of what he knew or did not know.

  ‘They are hoi oligoi of assassins,’ Cadbury replied to Vague Henri’s questions. ‘The Two Trevors cut down William the Silent in broad daylight, surrounded by a hundred bodyguards; they poisoned the lampreys of Cleopatra even though she had three tasters. When he heard what they’d done to her, the Great Snopes was so afraid that he ate nothing he hadn’t picked himself – but one night they smeared all the apples in his orchard using a strange device they made themselves. They leave no survivors. Whoever it is that Cale has upset, they have money and a great deal of it.’

  ‘I’d better disappear.’

  ‘Well, if you can vanish into thin air then by all means do so. But if you can’t evaporate you’re better off where you are. Not even the Two Trevors will ignore Kitty the Hare’s instruction to stay away from Spanish Leeds.’

  ‘I thought they could get to anyone?’

  ‘So they can. But Kitty isn’t just anyone. Besides, no one has paid them for such a risk. They’ll look for another way. Just stay out of sight for the next week, until I can say for certain that they’ve gone.’

  3

  It was mid-morning and Cale was waiting to go mad again. It was a sensation something like the uneasy feeling before a chunder heaves out the poisons of a toxic meal; the sense of a horrible, almost living creature gaining strength in the bowels. It must come but it will take its time, not yours, and the waiting is worse than the spewing up. A juggernaut was on its way, passengered by devils: Legion, Pyro, Martini, Leonard, Nanny Powler and Burnt Jarl, all of them gibbering and shrieking in Cale’s poor tum.

  Face to the wall, knees to his chest, waiting for it to be over with, he felt a hefty shove in the back. He turned.

  ‘You’re in my bed.’

  The speaker was a tall young man who looked as if his clothes were filled not by flesh but large ill-shapen potatoes. For all his lumpiness there was real power here.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re in my bed. Get out.’

  ‘This is my bed. I’ve had it for weeks.’

  ‘But I want it. So now it’s mine. Understand?’

  Indeed, Cale did understand. The days of invincibility were over for the foreseeable future. He picked up his few possessions, put them in his sack, went over to a free corner and had his attack of the conniptions as quietly as he could.

  In Spanish Leeds, Vague Henri was on his way back to his room in the castle, protected as far as the gate by four of Cadbury’s stooges, and with a promise of financial help from his new friend in the matter of the Purgators. Vague Henri detested all one hundred and fifty of these former Redeemers who Cale had saved from Brzca’s knife – for the simple reason that they were still Redeemers as far as he was concerned. But they were valuable because they would now follow Cale anywhere, under the entirely mistaken belief that he was their great leader and as devoted to them as they were to him. Cale had used them to fight his way across the Swiss border, intending to desert them as soon as he and Vague Henri were safe. But Cale soon realized that controlling so many trained soldiers willing to die for him would be extremely useful in the violent times ahead, however much he loathed their presence. There was one weakness in Cale’s plan: how to pay the ruinous amount of money it cost to keep so many in idleness until the expected war started – which, of course, it might not. With Cale gone, Vague Henri desperately needed money for himself and for the keep of the Purgators. He also needed a friend and he had found both in Cadbury, who thought it useful to have someone indebted to him who could draw on such a resource in these uncertain times. It was clear that Vague Henri was unwilling to discuss Cale’s whereabouts and would only say that he was ill but would be back in a few months. Cadbury was too smart to raise Vague Henri’s suspicions by pressing him. Instead of asking questions he offered help – a winning strategy in all circumstances.

  Now Kitty had an influence over someone who knew and understood the Purgators and who possessed information about the whereabouts of Thomas Cale. This information might become important in due course and now he knew where to get it should this prove necessary. Kitty the Hare was a person of intelligence but also considerable instinct. When it came to Cale, he shared Bosco’s belief in his remarkable possibilities, if not their supernatural origin; but news of Cale’s illness, however vague, meant that Kitty’s plans for him might have to be revised. On the other hand, they might not. It would depend on what kind of sickness was at issue. Desperate and dangerous times were coming and Kitty the Hare needed to prepare for them. The potential usefulness of Thomas Cale was too great to let the question of his current ill-health entirely diminish Kitty’s interest in what became of him.

  A thumb on every scale and a finger in every pie was Kitty’s reputation, but these days most of his concentration was on what was being weighed and cooked in Leeds Castle, the great keep that scraped the skies above the city. Its fame for not having required a defence in over four hundred years was now threatened, and King Zog of Switzerland and Albania had arrived to discuss its defence with his chancellor, Bose Ikard, a man he disliked (his great-grandfather had been in trade) but knew he could not do without. It was said of Zog that he was wise about everything except anything of importance – a worse insult than it appeared, in that his wisdom was confined to skill at setting his favourites against one another, reneging on promises and a talent for taking bribes through his minions. If they were caught, however, he made such a show of punishing them and expressing complete outrage at their crimes that he was generally more renowned for his honesty than otherwise.

  All the posh with power, the who whom, the nobs who had gathered in Leeds Castle to discuss the possibility of staying out of the coming war were anxious to become favourites, if they were not already, and to stay that way if they were. Nevertheless, there were many who disliked Zog on a matter of principle. They were particularly agitated at the great gathering because on h
is way to Leeds he had stuck his royal nose into a village council inquiry (he was a relentless busybody in minor affairs of state) regarding an accusation that a recently arrived refugee from the war was, in fact, a Redeemer spy. Convinced of the man’s guilt, Zog had stopped the proceedings and ordered his execution. This upset many of the great and good because it brought home to them the fragile nature of the laws that protected them: if, as one of them said, a man can be hanged before he has been tried, how long before a man can be hanged before he has offended? Besides, even if he were guilty it was obviously foolish to upset the Redeemers by hanging one of them while there was still, they hoped, a chance of peace. His actions were both illegal and thoughtlessly provocative.

  Zog was of a fearful disposition and the news from his informers that a notorious pair of assassins had been seen in the city had unnerved him to the extent that he had come into the great meeting hall wearing a jacket reinforced with a leather lining as protection against a knife attack. It was said that his fear of knives came from the fact that his mother’s lover had been stabbed in her presence while she was pregnant with Zog, which was also the reason for his bandy legs. This particular weakness also caused him to lean on the shoulders of his chief favourite, at that time the much despised Lord Harwood.

  There were perhaps fifty hoi oligoi of Swiss society present, most of them beaming with witless subservience as is the way of people in the presence of royalty. The remainder looked at their monarch with much loathing and distrust as he shuffled down the aisle of the great hall, leaning on Harwood, with his left hand fiddling around near his favourite’s groin, a habit that increased in intensity whenever he was nervous. Zog’s tongue was too large for his mouth, which made him an appallingly messy eater according to IdrisPukke, who had in better times dined with him often. Careless of changing his clothes, you could tell what meals he had golloped in the previous seven days, said IdrisPukke, from looking closely at the front of his shirt.

  After much royal faffing about, Bose Ikard began a forty-minute address in which he set out the present situation regarding the intentions of the Redeemers, concluding that while the possibility of war was not to be discounted, there were strong reasons to believe that Swiss neutrality could be maintained. Then, like a magician producing not merely a rabbit but a giraffe out of a hat, he took a piece of paper from his inside pocket and waved it before the meeting. ‘Two days ago I met with Pope Bosco himself, just ten miles from our border, and here is a paper which bears his name upon it as well as mine.’ There was a gasp and even a single cheer of anticipation. But on the faces of Vipond and IdrisPukke there was only dismay. ‘I would like to read it to you. “We, the Pontiff of the true faithful, and Chancellor of all the Swiss by consent of the King of Switzerland, are agreed in recognizing that peace between us is of the first importance.”’ There was a loud burst of applause, some of it spontaneous. ‘“And …”’ more applause, ‘“and that we are agreed never to go to war with one another again.”’

  Cheers of high relief rang up to the roof and echoed back. ‘Hear, hear!’ someone shouted. ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘“We are resolved that discussion and dialogue will be the means we shall use to deal with any outstanding questions that concern our two countries and to resolve all possible sources of difference in order to maintain the peace.”’

  There were hip hip hoorays for Chancellor Ikard and a chorus of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ all round.

  During the commotion, IdrisPukke was able to mutter in Vipond’s ear. ‘You must say something.’

  ‘Now is not the time,’ replied Vipond.

  ‘There won’t be another. Stall it.’

  Vipond stood up.

  ‘I am prepared to say without any hesitation or doubt that Pope Bosco has another paper,’ said Vipond. ‘And in this paper he sets out the general scheme for the attack on Switzerland and the destruction of its king.’

  There was the distinctive murmur of people who had heard something they didn’t care for.

  ‘We are negotiating acceptable peace terms,’ said Bose Ikard, ‘with an enemy we know to be violent and well prepared. It would be astonishing only if Pope Bosco did not have such a plan.’

  The murmur was now one of sophisticated approval: it was reassuring to have a man negotiating for peace who was such a cool realist. Such a man would not have his pocket picked by wishful thinking. Later, as the meeting came to an end and the conference filed out, mulling over what they’d heard, King Zog turned to his chancellor. Ikard was hoping, with good reason, to be complimented for dealing so skilfully with an opponent like Lord Vipond.

  ‘Who,’ said Zog, tongue aflutter in his mouth, ‘was that striking young man standing behind Vipond?’

  ‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘That was Conn Materazzi, husband of the Duchess Arbell.’

  ‘Really?’ said Zog, breathless. ‘And what kind of Materazzi is he?’ By this he meant was he one of the clan in general or of the direct line of descent from William Materazzi, known as the Conqueror or the Bastard, depending on whether he had taken your property or given it to you.

  ‘He is a direct descendent, I believe.’

  There was a wet sigh of satisfaction from Zog. From Lord Harwood there was a thunderous look of resentment. The royal favourite, who signed his letters to the King as ‘Davy, Your Majesty’s most humble slave and dog’, now had a rival.

  An equerry, somewhat hesitant, sidled up to the King. ‘Your Majesty, the people are raising a clamour to see you at the great balcony.’ This impressive platform, known as El Balcon de los Sicofantes, had been built two hundred years before to show off King Henry 11’s much adored Spanish bride. It looked out over a vast mall on which more than two hundred thousand could gather to praise the monarch.

  Zog sighed. ‘The people will never be satisfied until I take down my trousers and show them my arse.’

  He walked off towards the great window and the balcony beyond, calling out to Bose Ikard casually, ‘Tell the young Materazzi to come and see me.’

  ‘It would send a wrong signal to many, including Pope Bosco, if you were to see Duchess Arbell personally.’

  King Zog of Switzerland and Albania stopped and turned to his chancellor. ‘Indeed it would be a mistake. But you are not to teach me to suck eggs, my little dog. Who said anything about seeing Arbell Materazzi?’

  Conn had barely returned to his wife’s apartments when Zog’s most important flunky, Lord Keeper St John Fawsley, arrived to command him to attend the King in two days’ time at three o’clock in the afternoon. The Lord Keeper was known to the older princes and princesses as Lord Creepsley On All Fawsley – like royalty everywhere, they demanded servility and also despised it. It was said that on hearing his nickname Lord St John was beside himself with delight at the attention.

  ‘What was that about?’ wondered a baffled Conn after he’d left. ‘The King kept looking in my direction and rolling his eyes at me with such distaste I almost got up to leave. Now he wants to have an audience with me on my own. I’ll refuse unless he invites Arbell.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Vipond. ‘You’ll go and you’ll like it. See what he wants.’

  ‘I’d have thought that was obvious. Did you see him fidgeting about in Harwood’s groin? I could barely bring myself to look.’

  ‘Don’t fash yourself, my Lord,’ said IdrisPukke. ‘The King was badly frightened in the womb and as a result he is a very singular prince. But if he’s mad about you then it’s the best news we’ve had in a long time.’

  ‘What do you mean – mad about me?’

  ‘You know,’ taunted IdrisPukke, ‘if he looks on you with extreme favour.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Vipond. ‘The King is eccentric, or at any rate, given that he is a king, we’ve all agreed to call it nothing more. Except for a certain over-familiarity with your person you’ve nothing to worry about. You’ll just have to put up with his strangeness for the reasons my brother has referred to.’

&
nbsp; ‘I thought I wasn’t supposed to listen to IdrisPukke?’

  ‘Then listen to me. This is a chance for you to do all of us a great deal of good. God knows we need it.’

  Arbell, still plump but pale after the birth of her son, reached up from her couch and took Conn’s hand. ‘See what he wants, my dear, and I know you’ll use your good judgement.’

  4

  Kevin Meatyard might have looked like a sack of potatoes with a large turnip resting on the top but he was tack-sharp and his malice had a subtle ring to it. In other circumstances – if, perhaps, he’d had a loving mother and wise teachers – he might have made something remarkable of himself. But probably not. Murdering a baby in its cradle is, of course, something that should never be done – except in the case of Kevin Meatyard.

  We all know we should not judge people by their appearance, just as we also know that this is what we generally do. And this weakness in us all makes this regrettable reality a self-fulfilling prognostication. The beautiful are adored from birth and they become shallow with the lack of effort required in life; the ugly are rejected and become angry. People rejected Kevin Meatyard for the wrong reasons but there were those, not so shallow, who were ready to show him some human sympathy despite his giftless appearance and character. One of these kind people was Headman Nurse Gromek. If he’d never met Meatyard and felt sorry for him then he would have carried on being the blandly good man that he’d been all his life: harmless, competent, pleasant enough, a little blank.